


redolence before it all

by blue like winter (bleucommelhiver)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Character Study, Galahd, Galahdan Culture & Traditions, Gen, Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV (2016), Pre-Canon, Pre-Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 09:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12932229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleucommelhiver/pseuds/blue%20like%20winter
Summary: Nyx | tattoo your soul:Hand unwavering, in the aftermath of ashes and smoke, he stands in front of a broken mirror and draws his last tattoo, another crow’s feet and a small dot to match.They are more than fodder to a foreign King's war. They had lives, loves, and families before it all; before their lands were sacrificed and the Nifs fell like hail from the sky.For Glaives Week; Day 1: origins | background | before joining the kingsglaive | routine | day in the life





	redolence before it all

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, this started out as short headcanons for each Glaive before they joined the Kingsglaive, but it kind of spiraled out of control. First up (of course) is Nyx. The plan is to do one eventually for Libertus, Crowe, Drautos, and Tredd (Pelna and Luche if inspiration strikes).

 

_i. tattoo your soul_

* * *

 

When he is one, his father is so very proud. Bright eyed and curious with a vice grip that no infant should possess, Nyx is unafraid of the world. He is smiles and babbles and snatches at small animals he really shouldn’t. Perhaps this bravery is simply the foolhardiness of a child unmarred by the tribulations of life, but his father is convinced Nyx will make a great warrior one day, like all Ulrics before him.

At five, he learns his letters with his weapons. Whoever said the pen is mightier than the sword had not witnessed the fright in which this little boy wielded his knives. Nyx is agile and adept, wielding a traditionally one-handed Galadan kukri ambidextrously in either hand, juggling and feinting with a grace reminiscent of coeurls his father had witnessed once long ago in the high mountains of his hometown. But Nyx is a gentle boy, far gentler than his father would’ve preferred in the days of war with the way he fusses over Carys’ vegetable garden, always the little mama’s boy.

But then he sees the gurgling smile upon baby Selena’s face when little Nyx carefully tries to bring her live fishes in his tiny hands, he thinks maybe this is better. Warriors and heroes were not meant long for this world and he’d like his son to live until his bones creaked and his eyes smiled from millions of line etched happiness.

Thirteen is the age Nyx truly learns of loss, the lessons his father had imparted upon him – _use your strength to protect, son, not to maim_ – become twisted by death. The bloodlust is obfuscating when he sees his father’s body prone among the hundreds that were slaughtered; he doesn’t realize he is still covered in gore and dirt and sweat when Libertus finds him hours later quivering by their favorite riverbank. Nyx comes home that night with a tattoo his mother thinks he is far too young to have – a tiny crow’s feet followed by a falling comet beneath his eye, a reminder of a loved one fallen in battle.

This is the year Nyx joins the militia.

His first kill is when he is fourteen. Gouged the man’s eyes out before he strangled him to death. They said he was the Nif general that commanded the attack that stole his father’s life. Nyx lets the knowledge fuel him as his fingers tighten around his throat, an odd sense of satisfaction overcoming him as he watches the man purple like summer ripe berries before his last breath wheezes out like a deflating balloon. That night his commanding officer inks him with the lines upon his fingers, a mark of a man who has murdered with bare hands, an honor to be sure, but the gaping hole in his chest doesn’t grow any smaller.

Life afterward is a blur of blood and fistfights, some with enemies and some not. He is a knot of rage not even Libertus can untangle; the last time he tried, he left angry with a black eye and split lip. They had not spoken for months after. It is when Selena, only nine and already wise enough to be fed up with watching mother patch up her brother for the thousandth time with pooled tears unshed, finally gets ups, knocking over the many vials of ointments and snaps with more authority than anyone Nyx has known to possess, does he get his act together.

_“Grow up big brother. You’re not the only one hurting. You’re not the only one who lost father.”_

They say time heals all wounds, and perhaps to an extent it does, for when Nyx is eighteen and covered in marks of his accomplishments, hatred no longer courses through his veins like a driving force for being. Selena has grown so beautifully, the light of his life, all smiles and happy laughter except for days when he comes home covered in bruises and wounds. He lets her tend to him now, though she is not quite as practiced as mother, her touches are as gentle as her reprimands are harsh. And it is her words, and perhaps not so subtle prodding, that has Nyx deciding this isn’t the life he wants. Truly, all he ever wanted was to make father proud, to make mother happy, and to make his little sister laugh, so when Libertus approaches him with this absurd idea of opening a bar whilst the country was amidst turmoil, he laughs and says, “ _Yeah, fuck it, let’s do it_.”

Life becomes a blur again, but this time a carousel of bright laughter and smiles. He sees mother and Selena less and less now, the bar keeps him busy, but for the first time in years, he feels something akin to peace. It's a little selfish, but Nyx finds it hurts less when he's surrounded by memories of father.

Twenty is when it all goes to hell.

He wants to die. He’s lived far too long, cheated death far too many times for it to be fair for him to still be alive when…when _she_ wasn’t. What use was his training, was his father’s blade, that he had wielded so proudly, against a maelstrom of bullets and MTs? What use was _he_ when he couldn’t protect those he loved?

 _Nothing_.

Hand unwavering, in the aftermath of ashes and smoke, he stands in front of a broken mirror and draws his last tattoo, another crow’s feet and a small dot to match. Idly, he thinks it lines up perfectly with his first, the one in honor of father, to form an arrow pointing at where he’d like to put a bullet though. He presses the ink filled needle to his face harder, each penetration another reminder.

He is twenty, _but he is nothing_.

 

 

 

  

 


End file.
